Yo San

O little Yo San

With your face of tan,

And your dear little eyes peeping over your fan,

What a roguish way,

On this golden day,

You have found with my heart, with my poor heart to play

In the cherry-boughs sing

All the birds of Spring,

And the little brooks tinkle as they ripple and ring;

But match, if you can,

In the land of Japan,

The music of the laughter of my little Yo San!